Fifteen hours later, I am still thinking about the soup. Our fellow diners deemed it "interesting" (not a particularly encouraging word in the language of food), but I noticed that every single drop disappeared from our bowls. Egg whites formed delicate layers around a poached yolk sitting in a broth that tasted primarily of parsley and leek. It seemed that the flavors would fight for domination at any moment, but somehow, magically, they all worked. I am now obsessed with getting this soup again, but as next week's menu will be entirely different, the chances for this happening are nil.

This is, I suppose, the allure of theme nights for restaurants. After six days of listening to picky LA diners whine about their gluten allergies and dairy aversions, chefs must feel some satisfaction in saying Mom-like to their customers, "You'll eat it and you'll like it."